


Steps

by Linpatootie



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: (sort of), Drunkenness, Gen, Nightingale is just being nice, Peter talks a lot, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linpatootie/pseuds/Linpatootie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is drunk. Nightingale humours him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the ever-lovely Bifurism, who inspired this by sending me a little prompt. Thank you, also, for the betaread :3 <3

There's a fuck of a lot of stairs in the Folly. I don't know who decided to put all those stairs in there, but they must have been made of deeply sadistic stock. At least, that's what I was thinking as I was sitting at the bottom of the eastern staircase a little after midnight, scratching the back of my head and looking up at the surely insurmountable number of steps. 

What's worse was that I had two more flights of stairs to go after that, in order to get to my room. Deeply sadistic stock, I’m telling you.

"Why don't we have a lift?" I said out loud into the quiet room.

"Because the Folly was built in 1775, and the modern lift wasn't invented until 1853," came the answer, and I damn near slipped off the step I was sitting on. Here I was thinking Molly was the only one capable of soundlessly sneaking up to people, but apparently Nightingale had taken up lessons, too.

"Why do you even know that?" I said. "I don't know that, and I like buildings a lot more than you do."

"I'm a fountain of knowledge," he said, standing beside me, amazingly awake for the time of night. "Although I must admit you do like buildings far more than I do, so I can't exactly explain why it is you're lacking when it comes to lift trivia. Why are you sitting on the stairs in the dark?"

"Gathering strength and courage and the like," I said, gesturing weakly up the stairs.

He frowned at me, looking, I was ashamed to conclude, frightfully worried. I wasn't sure what he was thinking, but it hit me kind of hard, so I tried to fix it by offering him a bleary grin.

"Are you drunk?" he asked me then, the worry taking place for rightful annoyance.

"Yes," I answered cheerfully. No use in lying, as I was sitting there properly three sheets to the wind. Jaget had invited me to go drinking with a few blokes from the British Transport Police. He was just being nice, really, offering me a bit of distraction from Lesley May and all that. So I went, and I drank, and I drank some more, and had a slightly guilty-looking Jaget fetch me a cab to drive me home.

Shame that cab wouldn't get me up those stairs, though.

Nightingale sighed, shook his head, did a lot of disapproving I’m sure he had no right to do. The man was a copper too, and had, in fact, been young once. I’d bet my left nut he’d arrived drunk out of his mind at the Folly himself once or twice during his lengthy lifespan. 

“Get up,” he ordered. “I’ll help you up the stairs, lest you tumble down and break your neck.” 

“Alternatively, you might just get me a blanket and I’ll sleep right here,” I said, thinking I was being right helpful. 

“Yes, and allow you to sleep on the floor like some vagrant, that will surely serve to uphold the standards which the Folly has treasured for the past three hundred years,” he said. I giggled. He glared. It was kind of a moment, but not one I would look back on with much fondness. 

I struggled to my feet. The entire Folly seemed to be swaying gently back and forth, like a ship on a relatively mellow ocean. The only thing not swaying, actually, was Nightingale, who was observing me with the kind of exasperated distaste he usually reserved for tourists who didn’t know how to queue. 

“Okay. Stairs. Let’s do this. Will you catch me, if I fall?” I grinned at him. He clenched his jaw, and grabbed me firmly by the elbow.

“Peter, if you fall, I assure you I will simply allow gravity to work its will,” he said gravely.

“But you’ll come fetch me at the bottom, right?”

“Of course I will. Can’t just leave apprentices lying about, someone might trip over them.”

Now that was a joke, and it put me oddly at ease. One hand still around my elbow, he took my wrist with the other, and started guiding me expertly up the stairs. One had to wonder how often he’d done this. We’d made it halfway up already before I stopped marvelling at the whole thing, and started noticing how tightly he was holding my arm. 

“You’re kind of hurting me,” I pointed out.

“Sorry,” he said, and loosened his grip, which wasn’t quite what I was going for.

“No, I liked it.” I heard myself say it, and giggled, because, honestly, who says those words to his boss, in that order and everything?

He paused and looked at me funny, but without another word tightened his grip again. Well. That was a thing I should probably try to make a bit more sense of after I’d sobered up, though I half hoped the inebriation would allow me to simply forget it ever happened. I was sure sober me would have absolutely no bloody idea what to make of it. 

Step by step, we went up the eastern staircase. He never let go of my arm, which was good, because I was experiencing a tendency to lean backwards. We made it onto the first balcony without me toppling back down the stairs, however, which was an accomplishment all on its own.

He still didn’t let go of my arm as we walked across the balcony, as if he was worried I might wander off if he did. I probably would have, actually, but was entirely too busy being in awe of Nightingale holding on to me as we walked. 

“Your fingers are really long,” I said.

“How about you focus on where you’re putting your feet, instead of on my fingers.”

“You should play the piano. Or something.”

“Or something,” he repeated gruffly. 

We approached the second flight of stairs, and I halted with a deep sigh. “Why’d you have to put my bedroom all the way up there? You have three million empty rooms down here. Why torture me by putting me up so many flights of stairs?” 

“Because the rooms on that floor are decidedly nicer than the ones on this floor,” he explained calmly. “I stayed there too, when I was your age, and enjoyed every minute of it. Staircases or no.”

“Really?” I said, as he persistently tugged me onwards and up the first few steps. “You stayed there too? Which one?”

He guided me up a few more steps before he answered, and as he did, I got the feeling that he, too, was hoping I’d be too inebriated to remember most of this night. “The same one you’re staying in.”

“No way!” I might’ve waved my arms. I might’ve stumbled back a step and caused him to flail and grab me by my jacket. I might not have given a toss and stood there giggling at him about it. “I’m in your old room? Oh, you sentimental fish, that’s so nice. So nice. On purpose? Did you tell Molly to prepare your old room for me? So nice.” 

“Yes, very nice,” he said. “For the love of God, forwards, please, not backwards. Next time I really am just going to let you fall, you know.”

“No, you won’t,” I said with a grin, “cause you put me in your old room, probably even in your old bed. That book on the shelf, _Brave New World_ , that used to be yours too?” 

“Yes,” he said, grudgingly, very pointedly not looking at me. I giggled again, and on we went, step by step, getting to the top without further disruption.

“I read it, you know,” I offered.

“You did?” 

“Yes. Liked it, too. Old-timey sci-fi. Good stuff. So, uh, thanks, I suppose.”

He said nothing, but I could tell he was pleased. A bit like reading tea leaves, really, deciphering that man’s emotions, but I was starting to get the hang of it. 

“You know, before,” I said as we started up the last flight of stairs. “Before. It’d be Lesley helping me up. Or me helping her up. Usually that last one, cause let me tell you, that girl really can’t hold her liquor. But yeah. Before. And now it’s just me arriving piss drunk by myself, and I can’t tell you how pathetic that is, you know? And I’m kind of glad you found me, but also kind of not glad. Am I saying this out loud?” 

“Yes, you are.”

“Oh. Damn. I’m a chatty drunk. Sorry.”

“You’re chatty sober, although I must admit your brain-to-mouth filter functions much better when you’re not intoxicated.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Sorry.” I started trying to think of a way to steer the conversation back to something a bit lighter, back to me poking good-hearted fun, back to perhaps me flat-out tumbling down the stairs after all, but I’d gone and done it to myself now. I’d said the L-name, and now I felt like rubbish, and rubbish and drunk are really not good friends. 

I wasn’t the only one affected by the mention of the L-name, though.

“Do you miss her?” Nightingale asked, rather out of the blue. 

“No, I go out and get completely off my tits because it just seemed like a good time,” I said, attempting some kind of cheer but really only managing to sound kind of sick. 

Another few steps, halfway up the stairs, and Nightingale seemed to be pondering his words. 

“I miss her,” he then muttered, and I stumbled out of his grasp, leaning forward to steady myself with my hands on the steps. He stood by, a step higher up then I was, and just looked helpless.

“Christ!” I said, straightening myself, grabbing hold of the railing. “Why’d you have to go and say something like that when I’m drunk?”

“Because it would be very awkward if I said this when you were sober.” He looked apologetic enough, standing there looking down at me.

“It’s awkward now!” I said.

“Well. I live in hope that you won’t remember a thing of this in the morning.”

“I knew it. I knew it!” I pointed a finger at him, then remembered that was probably very rude, so I stuffed my hand into my pocket instead. 

He stood there uncomfortably, and I did much the same, and I was entirely too intoxicated to remain irritated. It all quickly settled into a kind of half-miserable, half-sympathetic feeling, and I sighed.

“Are we going to have a moment? Standing on the stairs, with me drunk and you… whatever it is you are?”

“I’m not particularly anything,” he said, and he sighed. “Oh, fine.” Next thing I knew he had my by the back of my neck, and pulled me in. It was a good thing I was still holding onto that railing, cause I really would have just collapsed in to him, and I doubt that was what he was going for.

No, Thomas Nightingale, defender of London’s magic underground, last scion of posh English wizardry, was giving me a hug. With a hand on the back of my neck, and a hand on my shoulder, and I was usually taller than him but was standing lower on the stairs and wound up with my face smushed into his suit jacket.

It was nice. It was really fucking nice. I don’t know what kind of expensive cologne he used but it was lovely, and he was warm, and kind of solid, and I might’ve grabbed him about the waist a bit because, well, it was right there. 

“I’m gonna try really hard to remember this,” I muttered into the fabric.

“You do that,” he said, sounding far more amused than he had any right to. He didn’t let go, though, so I didn’t either, and we just stood there for a moment longer. I hoped Molly wouldn’t see, because I doubted she’d let me live it down. Cold tea for weeks, and all that.

Then, it might’ve been worth it. Months of cold tea, even. I could feel him breathing. I listened close for his heartbeat, but it was too muffled by layers upon layers of expensive fabric. I debated just unbuttoning everything and diving in for it, but doubted he’d appreciate that.

The hand on my shoulder dropped to my elbow, and he tugged gently. "Come on then," he said. I nodded, and allowed him to guide me up the last few daunting steps. 

I didn't quite sing once we made it upstairs, but I really wanted to. I might've made some kind of happy sound, as Nightingale was looking at me as if he was deeply regretting every decision he'd ever made. He was still holding on to my arm, though, and I might've inched closer to him just a little, like a stray kitten into a friendly hand. 

I fully blame him and his silly mid-staircase cuddles for that one, obviously. He looked like he did too, still knee-deep in endless regret.

He steered me into my room, and sat me down on the bed. I sighed deeply in contentment, and watched him decisively leave my room again. 

He left the door wide open. I sat and stared at it for a while, as if I might close it with the endless powers of my will, but that honestly wasn’t going to happen without a bit of _impello_. I didn't think attempting that one in my inebriated state was such a good idea. I might wind up blowing the entire thing off its hinges, and that was a best case scenario. I accepted the opened door with a resigned groan, and leaned forward to start fiddling with my decidedly uncooperative shoelaces.

Nightingale came back into my room, carrying a bucket. I had no idea where he'd found that bucket so quickly. Did my floor have a secret bucket-holding cupboard, somewhere down the hall? I really needed to find some time to explore the Folly a bit more thoroughly. Full of surprises, that place.

He placed the bucket by the side of my bed. "There. If you need to get sick, kindly use the bucket for it. Can't really ask Molly to clean up after that."

"Won't need it. I think. I hope."

"Just in case," he said in a tone of voice that underlined he was actually pretty sure I was going to be spectacularly sick eventually, but didn't feel like arguing with me about it. 

He got to his knees in front of me with surprising ease for a 115-year-old bloke, batted my hands away from my shoes and started untying my shoelaces. I was, to put it mildly, taken aback by that turn of events, and sat back and watched him for a moment as my alcohol-infused brain struggled to catch up. 

He untied my laces, and gently pulled one of my shoes off, before continuing onto the next. All the while sitting in front of me, on his knees, in a £600 three-piece suit. 

"This like the start of a really bad porno," I pointed out dumbly.

"Good Lord," he said, "you just had to go and say it, didn't you?"

"Yes. Drunk. Brain-to-mouth filter kaput. I'm sure I'll regret it later." 

"Let it be known I have absolutely no intention of ravaging you in your current state," he said, which was an odd thing to say, because there was a certain implication hidden in there. 

I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt uneasily and watched him pick apart the somewhat overeager knot I'd tied my laces into that morning. "You don't have to do this at all, you know," I said.

"Yes, I do. You're my apprentice, I've sworn an oath to look after you."

"That oath include tending to apprentices when they're drunk?"

"I'm actually quite certain my masters would have reprimanded me rather severely if I'd ever wandered into the Folly quite this blotto," he said.

"Then why aren't you, uh, reprimanding me?" It occurred to me he might just be saving that for later, when I was sober enough to fully grasp it. Piles of Latin homework in my future, I was sure. 

He sighed deeply, setting my shoes aside and sitting back. "Extenuating circumstances? I don't know. I assure you I do not intend to make a habit out of it, so kindly let this be the last time you return to the Folly in this state."

"Yes, sir," I mumbled, a hiccup escaping me. I wasn't feeling too hot. 

He got back up to his feet, brushing his knees off before straightening. “Sleep it off, Peter. Don’t think I won’t have Molly wake you bright and early for target practice in the morning.”

“Yeah, I know. ‘S okay. Thanks?”

“No problem. Sleep well.”

He was already by the door when I spoke again. "I'm sorry. For being a twat."

"Is this apology intended only for tonight, or just in general?" he said, turning back to me, clearly fighting the urge to smirk.

"I'm far too drunk to properly respond to that comeback."

He gave up on the struggle and just flat-out grinned at me. He stepped back into the room, up to me, and next thing I knew he briefly cupped the side of my jaw. His thumb caressed my cheek, grazing over my stubble, his fingertips stupidly warm on my neck, and then he was gone again. It was a gesture of such affection it took my breath away.

“Don’t apologise. Turn up this drunk again and I will let Molly haul you up the stairs, and I assure you she’ll be a lot less gentle than I was. Now sleep.”

He left the room for real this time, pulling the door shut but not closing it all the way. I couldn’t say for sure why he didn’t, but I didn’t mind. It was, in its own way, oddly safe. Like he might still pop back in, if I needed him.

"I'm going to remember this in the morning!" I called after him.

"No, you won't!" he called back. I could hear the smile in his voice.

Yeah, I probably wouldn’t, and even if I did, I was fairly certain I wouldn’t be able to tell if this had all actually happened, or if my boozed up brain had dreamed it up. Either way. I shrugged at the empty room, burped, and threw up spectacularly into the bucket.


End file.
